


The Grief of Greg Lestrade

by directedbysherlock



Series: Water and Ice [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Jealous Mycroft, M/M, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Sad Greg, Sassy Lestrade, Sexy Mycroft, angst with a happy ending (the series), how they got together, kissing in an alley, loitering in an alley, series gets much darker before it gets any lighter, smoking in an alley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 10:36:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2809274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/directedbysherlock/pseuds/directedbysherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade thinks Sherlock Holmes is dead. Mycroft can't stop wondering what it would be like if Greg Lestrade cared that much about him...and follows him, until he finds out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Grief of Greg Lestrade

**Author's Note:**

> A series of vignettes about their relationship. Each part can be read as a stand-alone, or part of the series.  
> Part 2 of the series, Trust Issues, was already posted because I thought that was all there was to it, but then the rest of the story came to me afterwards. It will be a 5 part series.

When Sherlock finally threw himself off that roof, they had planned for everything. Mycroft was sure they had predicted all possibilities, calculated every last scenario. And they had, except for one glaring oversight; the immeasurable grief of Greg Lestrade. How he had not foreseen it, he could not have said. It wasn’t as if others hadn’t suffered as well, they certainly had. John Watson became a shell of his former self and stumbled through his days, only half alive. Mrs. Hudson cried for days. But for those two, Mycroft had expected it. Sherlock was the lucky one, gone somewhere far away, not having had to stay behind to watch it all unfold.

The grief of Greg Lestrade was something different to Mycroft, magnificent and fascinating to him in its raw intensity. He found he could not look away from it, could not stop watching how it ravaged the Inspector; how his hair turned a little more silver, the lines became etched more heavily in his face, how a defeated slump developed in his shoulders that had not been there before. He deduced many things about Greg Lestrade during this time, including other impulses that might be there; something darker, simmering just under the surface, perhaps rage or guilt or some other unfulfilled need. All minutiae, obvious to only the most careful observer.

It was hard to believe that the absence of his brother, whom he had previously imagined could be plucked from the face of the earth without so much as a ripple, could cause such profound effects on a hardened and practical man like Greg Lestrade. Who must have seen death hundreds of times before in his life, but who could be so undone by just this particular one. He had never been jealous of his brother, until, perhaps, right now. Because he could see what it was doing to Greg Lestrade.

He could only surmise, then, that Sherlock had been someone very special to these people. Special in a way that he himself was not, to anyone, to his knowledge. Excepting his parents, who were rather obligated to care. And perhaps to Sherlock, but that was always up for debate. Mycroft mused that if he died, within the hour Anthea would probably first call his lawyer to settle his affairs, and next a moving service to pack up his things. His office would be emptied within the day. She probably had the numbers on speed dial, just in case. His demise would be dealt with efficiently, reasonably, calmly. Not like this raging hole that Sherlock left behind in his wake.

And it gnawed at him, these blasted feelings that were ever present but unlocatable, like the scratching of rodents in the walls. Often, when he was passing across town in his sleek black car, he would ask the driver to detour slightly. He could most often find Greg Lestrade at his favorite pub, watching the TV with a pint in hand, standing and leaning into the bar with a hip jutting out. Accentuating whatever he was wearing, be it a dark suit from work or a soft, worn pair of jeans on his day off, tightly molding to his arse and thighs. He was easy to spot in the crowds through the front glass windows of the pub, that silver hair unmistakable.

The black car parked at the kerb, night after night, engines idling, blending into the darkness. Or so he thought. Mycroft hated what he was doing, yet was loathe to stop. Wondering what it would be like to be so special to Greg Lestrade, to have that intensity turned on him. As much as he desired him, he hated this obsession, the way he had to fight to control it all the time. He felt increasingly restless, uneasy.

Restless enough that finally he got out of the car one night in that wretched working class neighborhood. He paused on the pavement, adjusted his long coat and considered the pub’s grimy front door for a few seconds, but he could not make himself go in. Instead, he walked a few steps to the alley where he lit up a cigarette. He inhaled the smoke and then carefully blew it out, over and over, watching the silver rings form and then dissipate until the cigarette was nearly done.

“I know you’ve been following me,” a deep voice said from behind him, just at the edge of darkness. Not accusingly, just matter of factly.

Mycroft, startled, for once had lost his tongue. He slowly turned around, cigarette in hand, still lightheaded from the dopamine.

Lestrade lit up his own cigarette with a lighter and walked forward, entering into a pool of light from a dim bulb in the alley.

“I’ve noticed you, you know,” Lestrade said, pausing to blow out his own stream of smoke. “For a minute there, I thought you might actually come in.”

Mycroft took a last drag, threw the butt down and ground it out with his heel. He was stalling for time, searching for an excuse.

“Yes, I followed you,” Mycroft finally said, prevaricating slightly. “For...security concerns.”

Lestrade snorted. “Well, thanks for watching my arse, I guess. Although I don't think this is what the taxpayers had in mind.”

Mycroft smiled slightly. “I actually didn’t think you’d noticed.”

“Here’s a news flash. That car isn’t exactly undercover. And neither are you. Even before you started this thing with the car, I saw you watching me, when Sherlock was alive. When there was still some plausible reason that I should see you around.”

Lestrade threw down his own half-smoked cigarette, then walked towards him so determinedly that Mycroft backed up until he found himself against the wall. Lestrade placed his hands on the bricks to either side of him, boxing him in, face to face.

“I miss him, you know. I miss him like hell. Just like you do. It seems like kind of a waste, each of us missing Sherlock, alone. When we could do it together.”

Mycroft cooly met his gaze, but his skin grew hot, the sides of Lestrade’s coat brushing against him.

“Could we, now?” Mycroft countered, enjoying the game, the thrill of this hunt which had unexpectedly ended with him as prey, trapped in a snare between Greg Lestrade’s long arms.

Lestrade leaned in close, tilted his head to the side. “You never came in to the pub. All those times, and not even once. Why didn’t you just come in?” His dark eyes were mesmerizing as they looked into his. “It’s not so hard to do.”

Mycroft remained silent, watched Lestrade’s gaze roam over his face, assessing him.

Lestrade’s voice grew low, silky, seductive. “Let me tell you how it works, then. You go into a pub. You see a man you fancy. You walk up to him, chat him up a bit, and if everything seems to be going well, you ask him to come home with you. And if you're lucky, he says yes.”

“You’ve done that before, have you?” Mycroft said, a bit archly, but found it was difficult to speak, he was growing so breathless.

“Once or twice,” Lestrade answered back smoothly. “I know what I’m doing.”

Lestrade’s roving eyes stopped, lingered on Mycroft’s lips. Lestrade leaned forward slowly, lightly brushed his lips against against Mycroft’s once, then once again. Mycroft did not react, stood stone still. Wanting this. Hating this. Hating himself for wanting this.

Lestrade pulled back slightly, undeterred, just enough to speak. “Lucky for you, I just made it easy.”

He confidently leaned forward again, but this time Mycroft put a hand to Lestrade’s throat, closed around it lightly, kept him from moving any closer.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Mycroft asked, eyes narrowing as he observed Lestrade closely, at this point of no return. “You won’t find me an easy man to deal with.”

Lestrade’s lips quirked. “I can handle you. I know what you are."

Satisfied, Mycroft’s blood hummed under his skin. "Then I know what you need." Mycroft slightly increased the pressure on Lestrade's throat, thumb stroking.

A sound rumbled low in Lestrade’s chest, and suddenly Lestrade reached out with both hands, grabbed the lapels of Mycroft’s fine wool coat and pulled him towards him, kissing him roughly, his lips crashing into his, tongue demanding entrance, searing into him. Neither held back from months, maybe years, of pent up desire finally set loose.

Breaking away at last, breathing ragged, Lestrade spoke first. “I’m a sure thing. But ask me anyway. I want to hear you say it."

Mycroft reached out, slipped his hands under the loose folds of Lestrade’s open coat to grab handfuls of his shirt and pushed forward a few steps, propelling Lestrade backwards so that Lestrade's back was now to the wall on the opposite side of the alley. Mycroft pinned him there, his hips grinding into Lestrade’s, hard. _Wanting this._

“Just say it, goddammit,” Lestrade grated out.

“Come home with me,” Mycroft said, more a command than a request.

Lestrade growled in the dark, jerked Mycroft closer to him again by the coat lapels, lips just millimeters away.

“Fuck, it’s about time you got around to asking.”

That was how they began, something born of grief and guilt, desire and need, secrets and lies. None of that mattered then, it only mattered that he would soon feel the body of Greg Lestrade under his hands, under his mouth, to know what it was like to be inside him, to finally know the feel of his intensity burning into him. There would be a day when he would answer for all his schemes and subterfuge, all that he had done and still would do, which might cause even more grief to Greg Lestrade.

But all of that was yet to come. Tonight, there was only now.


End file.
